It was raining; the fine spring rain that seemed like nothing at all and yet soaked you to the skin, leaving hair dripping and frizzy, feet muddy and cold.
Sam didn't notice. He was in the herb garden, tallying up what he had and what he needed. He knew Mr Frodo was safely indoors, hands wrapped around a cup of tea, feet up in front of the fire. "No need to take chances, Mr Frodo," Sam had said firmly. "You know that you're not as strong as once you were."
Frodo had smiled; the smile that broke Sam's heart to see. It wasn't like a smile of old, bright and shining and full of hope and love; it was a brave smile, a smile Frodo wore when he thought Sam needed to see it. Sam never wanted to see that smile, never. He wanted Frodo his Frodo - his bright, shining Frodo back. But in his heart, he knew that would never happen.
And all the love he felt for Frodo, all the love he had inside his kind and generous heart, he poured into the garden, into growing things, and tending things, and making the garden beautiful for Frodo, so that sometimes, in the summer when the sun was hot and the air still, he could watch his master - his poor, wounded master - walk slowly around the garden, fingers touching softly, brushing a petal, gently cupping a flower.
But today wasn't one of those days; today Frodo was tired and weak, snapping at Sam and then touching his arm in silent, abject apology. As if he needed to apologise!
Sighing, Sam glanced around at the collection of herbs, their colours muted slightly with the rain. Dandelion for wishes. Sam knew what he wished. He wished that It had never happened, that Frodo could have stayed safe, never leaving his beloved Shire, sitting in front of Bag End smoking his pipe and reading his ancient texts, the words wrapping themselves around his heart and keeping him safe.
"Keep him safe," Sam whispered. The head of the dandelion moved in the rain, nodding slightly, and Sam smiled. He wouldn't uproot it, for that would bring bad luck, but he would be careful not to let it overwhelm his garden.
Next to it, the lavender, not quite ready to bloom, but taking on the hint of colour that presaged full blossoming. Lavender for peace, and happiness and love. Sam plucked some, even though he knew he shouldn't and raised it to his face, inhaling the just-awakening scent. Peace and happiness and love. He knew deep down that Mr Frodo would never find peace - he had sat with him through too many long nights of crying and shaking and cursing to believe that. Sam hoped to bring him happiness one day, real happiness, the kind he was due, the kind he deserved. As for the love - well, that just burned brighter in Sam's heart ever day.
Broom. To purify and protect. Sam wanted to protect Mr Frodo. Had tried to protect him all through their terrible journey, but somehow he had never been enough, and he would never forgive himself for that. He picked a little, adding it to the lavender.
Willow and Yarrow, more protection and love. If he had been able, Sam would have wrapped Mr Frodo in so much love that nothing would ever hurt him again. But it was too late to prevent him being harmed, and all Sam could do now was try and make him comfortable and happy. And to see him smile again.
Sam's head drooped against his chest and he felt tears biting at the back of his eyes. To make him smile again. He put one hand over his mouth, unable to hold back a sob, loud and startling. He missed his Frodo! His gentle, slightly eccentric Frodo, who lost himself in other worlds and would then sit with Sam in the parlour, and regale him with tales while the darkness closed around them, holding them suspended in another time, a time of magic and wonder.
And then Frodo would finish his tale and sit quietly, smiling gently into Sam's eyes, waiting until Sam followed him back down the path to their own world. He would reach out and touch Sam's arm, no more than a feather touch, and Sam would sigh.
"A good tale?" Frodo would say.
"A good tale," he would agree. Don't let go of me, Mr Frodo. Let me stay with you always. "But if you'll allow, I think I must be getting on back." Say no. Ask me to stay.
"Of course, Sam. I've kept you late again." And Mr Frodo would remove his hand, leaving Sam's flesh burning and aching for more.
He would stand at the door to Bag End watching as Sam made his way down the Hill, and it was a tradition with them; just before Sam moved out of sight, he would turn and raise a hand in farewell. Frodo would do the same, and his voice would carry softly: "Sleep well, Sam." And he would turn and the green door would close behind him.
Heaving a deep breath, Sam swallowed his tears, for what good would crying do? "What's done is done, Samwise," he muttered. "All you can do is take care of him."
Scanning around the garden, he saw more herbs he could use, and he almost smiled as he realised what he had done when he had planted these; almost all of them were for protection - right down to the nettles he allowed by the far wall. At any given time during the year he could come out here and find something to bring his Frodo love and protection.
"Sam!" He started as he heard his name called, and looked up, almost guiltily. Frodo was standing at the window of his study, a blanket wrapped firmly around his shoulders, his colour high and his eyes glittering with the onset of a fever. "Come inside, you'll catch your death out there. I've made some more tea."
Sam opened his mouth to protest, to tell him that he shouldn't be working, but his words died before they were born. Frodo was able to do so little these days, exhaustion setting in easily, and anyway, who was he to tell the Master of Bag End what he could and couldn't do?
"Coming, Mr Frodo," he said quickly, standing up and making his way to the kitchen door, getting there before Frodo who was moving slowly, obviously tired.
"What have you been doing, Sam?" he asked, looking at the herbs Sam was clutching. "What are they?"
Sam, his heart breaking and his arms aching with loneliness, put the herbs down on the table, softly, almost reverently.
"Just something I want you to have," he answered.
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